


After

by starlily11



Series: Heart of Steel AU One Shots [3]
Category: Cinderella Phenomenon (Visual Novel)
Genre: Depression, Genaro was an emotionally neglectful father, Grief/Mourning, Hildyr's awful parenting, I still haven't written the whole fic, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:21:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22766926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlily11/pseuds/starlily11
Summary: Lucette is gone, and all anyone can do is try to pick up the pieces and understand why.
Relationships: Lucette Riella Britton/Fritzgerald Aiden Leverton/Varg, Lucette Riella Britton/Mythros, Lucette Riella Britton/Waltz Cresswell
Series: Heart of Steel AU One Shots [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1479797
Kudos: 18





	After

**Author's Note:**

> This is directly following “The Fall,” so you may want to have some tissues handy. There will be references to child abuse, depression, suicide, and other sensitive topics. Nothing too graphic, but it is there. The poem in Myth’s section was written by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

_Once, I was your little star._

_A world of hurt has plunged_

_me into shadow, leaving me tired_

_and sore, with bruises and stardust_

_streaked across my all-too-human skin._

Waltz read those five lines, and his hands trembled. He read them again. His hands shook so badly that he had to sit down and set it on the table in front of him, lest he drop the small, leather-bound volume. ‘ _But you bore worse wounds than bruises, didn’t you, little star?’_ he thought. ‘ _And no one knew_.’ He sat alone in Lucette’s room at the Marchen. Distantly, he acknowledged that he could have read it anywhere and that his fellow boarders, Delora, and Parfait would have given him his privacy, but he wanted to read it here. Maybe doing this here, surrounded by the memory of _her_ , would help him understand.

The King had wanted to read this, too: Waltz had seen it in his eyes. But the selfish part of him didn’t want to share this last piece of Lucette with anyone. Not right now, anyway. Not with her having been dead and utterly _gone_ from him for mere hours. The King had been gracious enough to permit the search for this volume: he would also have to be gracious once more and let Waltz read it first. The more charitable side of him said that he should have let the King read it first: Lucette had been his daughter, after all. However, Waltz was in no mood to listen to that part. The woman he loved was dead. She had _promised_ him that she would always come back from those damned cliffs, and instead she had thrown herself off of them to escape a pain he hadn’t known was there. She owed him an explanation, and this was the only way he had to get it.

One hand curled into a fist, crumpling the page beneath it, while the other held the table in a white-knuckled grip. Red eyes blazed with equal parts rage and grief, and outside, the weather responded to his pain, bringing down fresh torrents of rain. “Why?” he asked the volume. “Why didn’t you tell someone?” His voice was toneless and shattered all at once. More softly: “Why didn’t you tell _me_?”

He glanced down at the journal, and some part of his heart that hadn’t been shattered splintered as he saw the crumpled page. This was all he had left of her. Tenderly, he waved his hand over it, restoring it to its former condition. Those same five lines leapt up from the page, almost accusing. _You left me_ , they seemed to say. _You left me with her_. _You did this to me_. He should have taken her with him, memories or no. He should have taken her by the hand and run with her until they were both out from under her mother’s shadow. But he hadn’t.

His vision blurred with tears, and he brought his hands to his face and let them fall, taking care not to let them splash on the journal. Hoarse sobs forced their way out of his throat. His soul, torn and wrecked by her passing, howled in agony, and the next round of tears made it hard for him to breathe. She had loved him, had looked upon him as someone she trusted to protect her, and he had left her with her murderous, corrupted mother. He had left his little star to lie battered and afraid in the dark.

It was all there in the journal: the awakening of her powers—and by the gods, how had he not noticed that?—her growing awareness of her mother’s evil and her knowledge that people hated her for her parentage…and Hildyr’s punishments. He’d known Hildyr could be brutal; she’d beaten Myth nearly to death once or twice, and had been known to beat him raw, too. But he’d never guessed the kind of cruelty she would visit upon her own daughter. Lucette had spared him no details in her written account, and those pages in the journal were stained by her tears.

“Waltz?” He raised his head and turned to the door. Annice stood in the doorway, somewhat wary but mostly concerned.

“Yes, Annice?” he asked. His voice came out as more of a croak due to his recent tears, and to his horror, Annice’s face crumpled in response.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed.

Waltz was flabbergasted. What on earth was she on about? “What on earth could you be sorry for?” he asked.

The question only succeeded in making Annice sob harder. “I saw her scars, Waltz. I saw her scars and I didn’t say anything!”

‘ _The scars. She saw the scars?_ ’ “How?”

“I-I came into her room to check on her. Sh-she was changing and, and I saw, I saw her back!” Annice sobbed. “She gave me this _look_ , and I didn’t dare to a-ask her, so instead I offered her a poultice to help the scarring.”

“And then what?” Some distant part of his mind felt that he should be alarmed by how flat and dead his voice sounded.

Annice let out another sob. “I-I made her the poultice and h-helped her apply it until the scars faded. We never spoke of it again.”

Slowly, Waltz rose from his seat and advanced towards the girl. “Why didn’t you say anything?” His voice was void of emotion, and Annice took a step back. “Did it never occur to you that that might have been important information?”

“I-I wanted to, but…you didn’t see the look she gave me. She didn’t want anyone to know.”

There it was. Secrecy had been Lucette’s watch word to the end. He would never know for sure if it had been Hildyr’s “training” or their handling of the situation with her or both. Regardless, Lucette had suffered in silence until the pain had destroyed her. And they had all done nothing. By the gods, she’d spent four years mourning him, believing him _dead_ , and he’d had no idea about any of it. Oh, he’d noticed how she seemed to have trouble looking at him in the beginning, but he’d foolishly assumed that she saw him as a child due to his curse. But no, the truth had been so much worse.

_“Somewhere in the halls of the gods, the fates are laughing at me,”_ she’d written. _“Today, when I went out to town with Emelaigne per the King’s orders, there was a boy in the town square who I could have sworn was a younger version of Waltz. Gods, he even had the same name. He conjured a bouquet of lilies for me, and it was all I could do not to cry. Actually, I couldn’t even speak for fear of breaking down. I’m sure he thought me unbelievably rude. Then again, he would hardly be the first person to hate me. Plenty have despised me for less.”_ He had assumed that her blank expression was the result of Hildyr erasing her memories. He hadn’t hated her for it: he’d only missed her smile. If only he had known…!

Being in the Marchen must have been torture for her: no wonder she’d had such a hard time even looking at him in the beginning. After spending so long believing him dead by Hildyr’s hand, seeing a child that looked so much like him, even carrying the same name…well, no wonder. And her face when he was finally able to tell her the truth: that mixture of joy, sorrow, and…yes, that had been self-reproach in her eyes. She would have wondered how she had missed the clues. But she’d been laid bare, bombarded by emotions and thoughts that were not her own for so long that he couldn’t really blame her for not noticing. But even having his supposed death prove to be false had not been enough to end her pain.

Waltz looked at Annice, who was still in tears. “She kept secrets from all of us,” he said softly. “This was not your doing, Annice.”

“Everyone’s looking for you,” she said quietly.

“I’m here.” He turned away. “It just felt right to read it here. I just need a little more time.”

Annice nodded. “I’ll do my best to keep them away.”

* * *

“Your Majesty?”

King Genaro Britton III raised his head and turned to look at the servant hovering in the doorway. But he did not rise from his kneeling position. In his hands, he held a drawing, yellowed with age, obviously done by a child. “Yes, Marcus? What is it?”

The manservant shifted on his feet. If anyone else had performed such a movement, it would have been described as awkward, but Marcus could never be described in such an ungainly manner. He had been serving the King for years. Words like “awkward” and “ungainly” were the last words anyone would ever use to describe him. Yet here they were: the King on his knees in his daughter’s room, and his loyal servant hovering helplessly in the doorway. “The servants are frightened, Your Majesty. Will you reassure them?”

Once upon a time, Genaro would have risen and left the room then to address his people. Today, however, he did no such thing. He remained on his knees, and turned his attention back to the drawing. It depicted a smiling king and queen holding hands, their daughter watching happily in the background. The drawing his Lucette had tried to give him years ago, back when Hildyr had held his kingdom hostage. With Hildyr around, there had been no chance for him to be a father, no matter how he longed to be. That witch was always watching, ready to pounce if he put one toe out of line. And so he had behaved coldly to the one light in his darkness, pushing her further and further into her mother’s claws.

Lucette: “little light.” Despite everything, she had fought Hildyr’s influence. She had been such a sweet, happy child. Seeing her face fall every time he pushed her away had nearly killed him. So had watching that precious light dim a little more with every year they all spent under Hildyr’s thumb. The day she stopped calling him “Father” broke his heart. He’d hoped that after the War ended and Hildyr was gone, that bright, sweet child would come back. But instead, he only received lowered eyes, soft murmurs of “Yes, Your Majesty,” and a near-silent wraith who moved through the world around her like one lost in a dream, a sleepwalker.

How had he not noticed? _‘Because you never spent any time with her,’_ a nasty little voice in his head replied. _‘Admit it. You barely made any effort to speak with her or get close to her. She treated you as a dutiful subject would a distant king, because that’s what you were._ ’ He had to admit now: she had never seemed to be intentionally cruel. All she did was keep her distance, only speaking when spoken to and going about her days. To his horror, he realized that he had little idea how exactly she’d spent them. He’d assumed that she sat in her room or the gardens all day, but recent events disavowed that notion. She’d held her own in a sword-fight with _Alcaster_. As he looked around her room, he saw numerous sketches and drawings, even some paintings, all of which bore her signature. Books covered every spare bit of table or desk, and some were in languages he didn’t recognize. _‘Face it, Genaro. You never knew your own daughter.’_

When had that last spark died, he wondered. When had he last seen her smile? He couldn’t remember. The past couple of days, her face had only shown him fear, worry, mild annoyance, concern, and on one occasion, hurt. Genaro closed his eyes at that last one. _“You really are your mother’s daughter…”_ he’d wanted to call those words back the moment they left his mouth. Before that disastrous conversation, everything Lucette had done had been to help him, to save him, Ophelia, and her children. And like a blind, sanctimonious fool, the minute she said something he disagreed with, he’d thrown it all back in her face. All she’d done was suggest killing Hildyr by poisoning. It was underhanded, yes, but surely the means could be overlooked? It all seemed so absurd now. Oh, how he wished he’d gone after her when she left. Maybe they wouldn’t be here now.

That wounded expression on her face…it would haunt his nightmares for years. Had that been what pushed her over the edge, or had something else happened? Maybe Waltz would tell him. If he ever came back. The witch and…Varg, was it? The witch and that dark-haired rogue had gone into Lucette’s room with him. Seeing the sheer number of books in her room was a surprise: he hadn’t known she enjoyed reading that much. Oh, he’d given her books, but he’d only thought they might help her in her studies. He’d never guessed that she would keep them. But she had, and judging from her copies of some of the plays, read them several more times. Then again, he hadn’t known she enjoyed art, either.

Waltz had noticed that the paneling on a wall seemed loose and pulled it back, revealing the journal he’d given Lucette for her twelfth birthday. He’d stepped forward to make sure, and sure enough, it was the brown-leather volume embossed with golden lilies he’d had made specifically for his daughter. She’d kept that, too, and written her thoughts in it as he’d hoped she would. Perhaps it would have answers. Waltz had apparently thought so, too. He’d opened it, scanned the first two pages in silence, then snapped it shut. His eyes had blazed, and he’d opened a portal to who-knew-where and stepped into it, disappearing without a word. Really! He’d expected better from him. Waltz may have lost his beloved, but he’d lost his _daughter_! Didn’t that count for something?

_‘Really, now? Did you ever treat her as such? Never mind her station as Princess. Did you ever spend time with her, where you were her father and nothing else, and she only your daughter, not your heir and subject?’_ Genaro shook his head slightly, trying to clear his head of the poisonous thoughts that seemed intent on worming their way into his mind. The drawing in his hand suddenly seemed like an accusation. Lucette had been his light through all those dark, silent years, but did she ever know that? No matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to recall a time where he’d told her that, or any conversation where they had truly talked to each other. Oh, he could recall plenty of stilted conversations where he inquired about her lessons, and her responses remained polite and impersonal. The memories of the numerous meals he’d had to order her to spend with him, Ophelia, Rod, and Emelaigne were fresh in his mind. Once again, polite but impersonal had been the impression she gave. Not once had he seen any part of the girl who had apparently learned over ten different languages and cultivated a talent for art that he saw here in this room.

A painting in a darkened corner of the room caught his eye, and he rose, folding the childish drawing carefully and tucking it into a pocket near his heart. What he saw on the canvas knocked the breath from him. A single tree stood in the center of a raging sea: above it, lightning flashed and clouds rolled in on what was once a flawless azure sky. The tree stood tall in spite of everything: battered and scarred, it remained standing. The storm had torn away limbs, scattering weaker branches onto the ground below. Sap bled from the trunk. Even so, it lived. In its topmost branches, a single blossom still dared to bloom, reaching for the small corner of the sky where the sun still shone through. _‘When did she do this?’_ he wondered. His hand hovered over the painting, not quite touching it. He traced a finger over the air above the single blossom. _‘My Lucette.’_

Tears burned in his eyes, and he turned to another painting. This one depicted a garden, clearly neglected. Once smooth paths were overgrown with weeds, and ivy crept over the skeleton of a shattered fountain. Moonlight glinted on a silver pool tarnished by algae, and all over the garden, moon-flowers fought one another for even the smallest bit of light. Trees hung heavy with overripe fruit, and still more fruit lay forgotten on the ground. Even so, a glimpse of the garden’s former beauty remained. In the shadows, some hardier roses bloomed quiet and still in the background, and fish still swam in the moon-kissed pond. Some of the braver ones leapt to the surface, flashing silver in the light before disappearing into the water once more. Pale lilies grew in patches, and a young, tattered girl knelt amongst them, tending and caring for them, trying to save what remained.

With infinite care and tenderness, Genaro reached out and touched those lilies, then the face of the girl, who in that moment resembled his Lucette. His little light. Tears fell down his cheeks. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

“She already did.”

Genaro whirled around to face Waltz. The witch’s face was closed off, and he held Lucette’s journal in his hands. He held it in a death grip, as if he almost couldn’t bear to let it go. When he lifted his eyes, Genaro took an involuntary step back. The red eyes, so filled with warmth and love when he was around Lucette, had gone cold and hard. The witch stepped forward, holding out the journal.

“Read it.” It was a command, sharp and abrupt.

“I intend to,” Genaro responded with equal sharpness. “I would have done so sooner if you hadn’t disappeared with it.”

Waltz shrugged, the motion so dismissive that Marcus sputtered at the disrespect. “I needed answers. Now I have them. You can have your turn now.” His eyes narrowed, and his cold expression morphed into icy contempt. “One would think having Hildyr as a mother would be bad enough, but I’m starting to think having you as a father was the final nail in the coffin for her, _Your Majesty_.” The witch spat the last two words, turning them into a mortal insult.

“Tread carefully, Cresswell,” Genaro growled. “Lucette may have claimed you as her lover, but I was her father.” Behind him, Marcus was silent. He must have fled.

“Oh, really?” Waltz laughed, the sound filled with bitterness. “Her journal says otherwise. Between you and Hildyr, she might as well have had no parents at all. One of you tried to turn her into a puppet, and the other first ignored her, then replaced her with another family. Tell me, did you even try to be a father to her before you went looking for Ophelia, or did you just make a few half-hearted efforts to speak with her before leaving her alone again?”

Before either could blink, Genaro had his sword pointed at Waltz’s throat. “How _dare_ you?! I loved her! I loved her before you even knew her, Cresswell! Do you think it was _easy_ for me to leave her to be raised by Hildyr and watch from the shadows as that witch tried to turn the one good thing she’d ever done for me into a mirror image of her? Do you think I enjoyed watching that sweet, happy child turn into a distant, cold woman who couldn’t even bring herself to call me “Father”?”

Waltz snorted. “I know _exactly_ what it was like to be under Hildyr’s thumb, or did you forget? I was one of her apprentices. Do you know what she did to me? To Myth? She asked my parents to hand me over to her for training, and killed them when they refused. She lied to me about it for years and constantly pitted Myth and I against each other, and beat us bloody whenever our performance wasn’t to her satisfaction. I saw exactly what she was doing to Lucette, and after I found out what she’d done to my parents, do you know what I did? I found the Lucis Bearer and helped launch an attack that brought this kingdom some peace.” He knocked the king’s sword away with a flick of his wrist. “You did nothing of the sort, Your Majesty. You never once fought for her, nor did you make any visible effort to show her that you saw her as anything other than Hildyr’s daughter…a child that you never wanted.”

Red filled Genaro’s vision, and he shook from the effort of resisting the urge to pin this arrogant witch against the wall and throttle him. “I know I failed her. But you have _no right_ to heap these insults on my head, Cresswell. You may have fought for her more than I have, but I didn’t see you around the palace after the War. Pray remember that you left her, too.”

Waltz’s eyes flickered, and the fight seemed to drain out of him. “You’re right.” He closed his eyes briefly, a pained expression flashing across his face. “We both failed her.” He held out the journal, and Genaro took it.

“Read it,” the witch said again.

Genaro nodded, and opened the small volume to the first page. Lucette’s elegant calligraphy glared up at him. Gods, even at twelve, she’d had beautiful handwriting. There was a flash of purple light, and he knew Waltz had gone. Genaro seated himself on Lucette’s bed and began to read.

* * *

  
_What will it take for you to really see me?_

_I am not her: I will never be her._

_You stand over me, looking down at me._

_You look, but you do not see._

_I have been down here bleeding on the ground_

_for so long that I scarcely remember a time_

_when I was not covered in wounds._

_Look at me, and see what she did to us both._

“I see you, Lucette,” the King whispered. The journal rested on his lap, where his then-fifteen-year-old daughter’s words glowered up at him. His face was damp with tears, and a shaking hand stroked the letters, trying to reach someone who was no longer there to receive the gentle touch. The whispered words reached for someone who was long out of earshot. No wonder Waltz had been so filled with rage and hatred for him when they’d spoken. Seeing his actions through his daughter’s eyes, Genaro hated himself, and wondered why she hadn’t done the same. This poem was a plea for help, for comfort, that had gone unheard.

Reading Lucette’s journal flooded him with memories of the days she described, but he looked upon them with new eyes. Every move she’d made, every glance up at him through lowered lashes, held a new meaning to him. Suddenly, her distance became wariness, her standoffishness turned into hesitance to approach for fear of rejection, and Genaro felt like a fool. How had he not noticed her fear of him in those early days after Hildyr’s defeat? How had he not noticed her pallor and thin frame, hidden behind carefully arranged layers of silk, the dark circles under her eyes from nights of sleeplessness? More importantly, why hadn’t he kept a better watch on her during those days? Yes, he’d had Alcaster assign her a personal knight after that first year, but why not before? Why hadn’t he tried harder to speak with her, to break past the shields she’d put up?

Waltz had been right: he had utterly failed as a father. No daughter should fear that her father would bow to public pressures and have her executed as Lucette had: and gods, how had he not guessed that? Those factions hadn’t exactly been quiet. Had he really thought that Lucette wouldn’t hear of it? He cringed at his past naiveté: he’d assumed that since she barely left her room, there was no way she would hear of it. But instead, she’d been a hidden witness to almost every council meeting to this effect, watching from behind a large potted plant as he repeatedly dodged the question and distracted the council with other matters.

Lucette hadn’t been present the day the council had tried to push the issue. One fool had suggested that if the king was reluctant to have her publicly executed, it would be easy enough to poison her. That fool had then lost his position, all titles and properties, then been banished for suggesting something so foul. If she had seen that, maybe…maybe she would have known that he loved her enough to fight for her. She would have known that he would never have her killed. After that day, no one had dared to bring up the idea again. That had been when he’d had Alcaster find Lucette a personal knight, just in case of would-be assassins.

Genaro had to admit: he’d never suspected that his little light would convince said knight to teach her how to defend herself. He’d never realized how fiercely independent she had become. Far from being under Hildyr’s total control, she had been fighting her for years, almost entirely alone and in silence. He was pathetically grateful for Fritz: the young man had looked after her, tending her minor injuries and carrying her to the physicians for more serious issues. But she’d kept the worst of her hurts hidden even from Fritz. Seeing everything she’d been carrying on her shoulders cut Genaro to the quick. How he wished he could go back in time and hold her.

If he had only known…he would have swept her into his arms the moment Hildyr was defeated and held her until she told him everything. He would have silenced the first fool to suggest her execution…by force, if necessary. He would have told her a thousand times a day that he loved her, would have done so until she was utterly sick of hearing it, and still kept going. When she woke weeping and screaming from nightmares about her mother, he would have led her to the kitchens and made her a cup of the tea his mother used to make for him in such times, and dried her tears. On the days she would be silent and drained, utterly overwhelmed by the clamor of other people’s feelings surrounding her, he would have set aside a small corner in the palace for her to be alone, plied her with light foods until she ate something, and let her rest her head on his shoulder, secure in her father’s love. He would have introduced her to Ophelia sooner, and his loving wife would have convinced Lucette that she would gladly accept her as another daughter. They would all have been a family.

But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d left her alone, adrift in a world that hated her. He hadn’t been there to protect her, so she’d learned how to fight for herself. And oh, had she fought. She’d fought with wounds on her heart and soul that would have killed people twice her age, and she’d still struggled forward, challenging what fate had dealt her with every step. Everything that Hildyr had thrown at her, everything that he had allowed his people to throw at her, had been met with ferocious defiance and led her to show kindness to someone that most would never have even considered: Myth, or Sir Mythros, as he’d known him. His daughter’s wild, reckless moments of kindness towards the corrupted witch had led him to change sides right when all hope seemed lost. Against all odds, Hildyr had lost again. Because of Lucette. His fierce, beautiful, wounded daughter had won a war that no one realized she was fighting. But her wounds had killed her right at the dawn of a new day. And he, Genaro Britton III, was at least partly responsible for that.

* * *

  
Outside of the palace, in a house across town, a series of crashes and thuds could be heard from behind a securely locked door, punctuated by ragged breathing and shouts of rage. Inside, a masked, dark-haired rogue with golden eyes prowled the room, throwing furniture into walls and overturning tables. The whole time, he roared with grief masked by rage. Finally, he collapsed against a wall, sliding into a sitting position and burying his head in his arms. His shoulders shook from tears that Varg was too proud to shed, but that Fritz was not. The wolf was loose for now, but the hunter was catching up with him.

Inside their shared headspace, Fritz howled in anguish. _‘How did this happen?!’_ he demanded. _‘What did I not see?’_ Frankly, the wolf wondered that, too. Hadn’t they been by her side for four years, even before the wolf had been separated from the hunter? Hadn’t they taught her how to wield a sword, picked her up and carried her to her room when whatever weighed on her became too much to bear? She had sought solitude, but she had always turned to them when she needed help…except for this last time. When had she stopped turning to them…to Fritz? When had that spark in her died?

Varg wanted to hunt down Cresswell and demand answers: Little Red had chosen him in the end, so why the hell hadn’t he protected her?! Fritz also wanted answers, but he was certain that the witch had been just as clueless as them. The low, wounded sound he’d made when that other witch—Myth, Mythros, whatever he was calling himself—had confirmed their Princess’s death couldn’t be faked. Cresswell hadn’t known she would do this, either.

“Come off it, knight,” Varg snarled aloud. “The point is that we stepped aside for him to be by her side, and she offed herself on his watch. We should never have trusted him.”

_‘But she loved him,’_ Fritz said quietly. _‘She was so happy with him: you know we never saw her smile like that before he came along.’_

“But clearly _something_ was wrong!” Varg roared. He seized another object and hurled it against the wall, feeling a surge of petty satisfaction as it shattered. “If she was so fucking happy with Cresswell, why did she go and throw herself off a cliff?”

Fritz went silent for a long time. _‘Maybe there was something else. Something none of us knew about. Waltz has her journal now. Maybe he found something out.’_

Varg growled. “The things I do for her…” With Fritz watching silently in their shared mind, the rogue stalked out of the house, bent on finding Waltz and shaking answers from him.

* * *

  
Downstairs in the Marchen, in the parlor, Parfait leaned against Delora, weeping. The witch wrapped an arm around the fairy and stared numbly into the fire, her thoughts carrying her oceans away from this awful situation. The Ice Princess—no, _Lucette_ —was dead. Worse, she’d died by her own hand. Waltz was now the Tenebrarum Bearer. All this time, Hildyr had not been dead, but slumbering inside the Tenebrarum until someone forced Lucette to free her. And this same someone had later changed his mind and helped Lucette to dispose of her mother…for real this time. Who knew that Myth would develop a soft spot for the girl?

Delora held Parfait a little tighter, hugging the fragile fairy a little closer. She would be even more fragile now. First someone she’d grown up with and loved almost as a sister had chosen corruption, starting the Great War. Now, that friend’s daughter, whom they’d all feared would walk the same path, had instead put an end to the threat her mother posed and then ended her own life. Waltz had saved them from Hildyr at the end of the War, but now, with Lucette gone, taken from him again, he was shattered. And witches, when wounded like Waltz now was…well, his path was uncertain, to say the least.

“What did we miss, Delora?” Parfait asked faintly. “Where did we go wrong?”

“I don’t know, Fait,” Delora replied. The last time she’d felt this lost, she was kneeling over Loreah’s lifeless body, knowing that a corrupt Bearer had killed her. She closed her eyes. What on earth had she missed? She’d sat on Lucette’s shelf, masquerading as a doll for nearly a year, and she’d only seen a cold, distant Princess who scarcely seemed to notice the world around her. She and Fait had hoped that the curse would force her to interact with the world again, and in doing so, break the icy shell that surrounded her.

Instead, they might have broken _her._ As Parfait sobbed into her shoulder, Delora reflected on every moment she’d spent with Lucette. She had to admit: as a rule, the rumors circulating about the so-called Ice Princess had been mostly unsubstantiated. The Princess had not displayed any particular brand of cruelty, seeming more or less content to stay in her room, working on one art work or another, reading, writing translations of whatever work she happened to be reading, and generally not dealing much with people. The one exception had been when she’d fired poor Annice, but she had apologized for that in the Marchen, and with almost no prompting. And Delora had to wonder how much of the initial incident had been an act.

The Princess had even consented to doing chores, acknowledging that it was only fair that she earn her keep. And she’d done so with only the occasional sigh, and sometimes a death glare aimed at anyone who dared to track mud on the floor. ‘ _And I thought I would have to put a spell on the broom to get her to sweep,_ ’ Delora thought with a tinge of amusement. But, no. The Princess—no, _Lucette_ —had simply raised her eyebrows slightly and accepted the assignment, going about her work. She’d been slow at it at first, but hadn’t stopped for even a moment, and she’d gotten gradually faster. _‘I misjudged you, Lucette,_ ’ she thought sadly. _‘I’m sorry.’_

The girl had actually been fairly good company once Delora got used to her near-silence and uncanny ability to tell exactly what was needed at the moment. She didn’t sugarcoat the truth, but she also didn’t blow things out of proportion and make them seem worse than they were. She’d had a way of listening in a way that regardless of her parentage, people wanted to tell her things, because somehow they knew she would never judge them. None of them had ever quite been sure what she was thinking at a given moment. It had struck Delora as odd at the time, but now…she had to wonder what that carefully constructed mask had concealed.

Lucette had seemed to be getting better. They shouldn’t be sitting here mourning her death, Delora thought. Waltz had gotten through to her, and they’d all caught a glimpse of the girl he’d known and wanted to save. So, how had they gotten _here_ , with Lucette dead by her own hand and Waltz shouldering the burden of the Tenebrarum? None of this made sense.

“Do you think _we_ helped cause this, Delora?” Parfait asked.

“At this point, I’m not sure what to think, Fait.” Delora tightened her arms around her friend, and seated them on a nearby sofa. “I keep replaying every time I ever spoke to her, trying to see find something I missed. It turns out that even if we _did_ manage to melt the “Ice Princess” façade, she had even more walls beneath that. The only one who could get past those was Waltz, and even he didn’t expect _this_.”

Parfait let out a quiet sob. “She had so much good in her…but she was hurting so much, too.”

Delora closed her eyes against the sudden sting of tears. “Corruption ruins everything it touches. First it claimed Hildyr, and she started a war and terrorized the kingdom for years. She tried to lead her daughter down the same path, and Lucette was fighting her own enemy. That’s what killed her.”

Both women glanced upwards for a moment. “Poor Waltz,” Parfait said quietly. It had been hours since he’d left the palace by portal, leaving a hollow-eyed Varg behind. They’d come to the Marchen as quickly as they could, only to be stopped from following him up the stairs by Annice.

“Let him be for now,” the brown-haired girl had said quietly, her face stained by tears. “I spoke with him. He’s all right: just…please, give him time.”

No sound came from upstairs. “He’s lost the woman he loved,” Delora murmured. “Of course he’s going to take it hard. Especially considering that he lost her once already.”

“Do you think…” Parfait trailed off, not quite able to finish the sentence.

“That he’ll turn to corruption? No. He may struggle for a while, but Waltz is strong. Even more importantly, he’s not alone in this. We’ll be here for him…like we weren’t for Lucette,” Delora silently promised herself to keep an eye out and her door open for the younger witch.

_‘I shouldn’t have been so harsh on her,’_ Delora thought. _‘If I’d paid more attention and hadn’t made assumptions, maybe she would have talked to someone.’_ But instead, she’d toed the party line like everyone else in the kingdom. They had all been wrong. So, so wrong.

Footsteps sounded outside the parlor door, followed by two firm knocks. Delora hurried to the door and opened it. Waltz stood outside of it, clutching a journal that had to be Lucette’s. His crimson eyes held none of the spark they usually had. It was like the joy and life had been sucked out of him, and Delora’s heart broke a little more. “Waltz,” she greeted him. She gestured to the journal. “I take it you learned something?”

Agony flashed across his face, and Delora regretted asking. She reached out for him. “Waltz, you don’t have to tell me or anyone else about it if you don’t want to. But we’re here to listen if you do.”

Waltz flashed a wan smile. In a way, it was worse than the previous expression. “I did learn something,” he answered her. “A lot of things, actually.” That same pained expression from before flashed across his face, and he once again fought to regain his composure. The forced calm lasted only a few seconds before cold rage replaced it. In a voice colder than Lucette at her iciest, he said, “If Hildyr wasn’t already dead, I’d kill her myself.”

Delora found herself taking an involuntary step back from the flare of rage. “Hildyr’s committed many atrocities,” she said carefully.

“Some of which she visited on her own daughter,” Waltz replied, tone grim. “Lucette’s journal…does not tell a happy story. I never realized how much she saw or heard.” His voice and face both turned hesitant. “Delora…have you ever heard of half-bloods developing empath abilities before they come of age?”

Ice flooded the older witch’s veins, and several pieces clicked into place in her mind. “No. Are you saying…?” Parfait, coming up behind her, gasped with the knowledge.

Waltz nodded. “She did. And these abilities, if I understand her journal, were really strong…” after a moment, he added: “Too strong.” His voice cracked. “No one could have held out against something like that forever.”

“How bad was it?”

Waltz swallowed hard, closing his eyes briefly. Then, in a voice so quiet Delora and Parfait had to strain to hear, he answered. “One touch could reveal a person’s deepest nature to her, and even some of their memories and thoughts. Prolonged contact could give her their life’s story.”

“Stars above,” Parfait whispered in horror. From anyone else’s lips, it would have been a series of expletives. Delora certainly felt like swearing in the face of this new information. “No wonder she closed herself off,” Parfait realized. “That would have been a misery for her.”

“How long?” Delora asked. “How long had she been carrying this?”

“Almost six years…since she was twelve,” Waltz replied.

Delora’s eyes widened, and Parfait’s hands flew to cover her mouth. “Then she knew what Hildyr was,” Delora said in horror.

Waltz nodded. “Her abilities somehow enabled her to resist Hildyr’s attempts to erase her memories, with Hildyr none the wiser. She grew defiant, and Hildyr…” his voice cracked with emotion. “Hildyr tried to beat it out of her. And it happened right under my nose.”

Parfait placed a hand on his arm. “It wasn’t your fault, Waltz. None of us noticed what was happening.”

“But I should have. I was there when it was happening.” Then, jaggedly: “She remembered me all this time. She thought I was _dead_ , and she mourned me for four years. And I was so close.”

Delora closed her eyes, and Parfait leaned against her, eyes filled with tears. This was too horrible to bear. A terrible sense of failure pressed against both pairs of shoulders, landing on both of them with all the force of a hard, physical blow. They had been the ones who had forced him to keep secrets from Lucette for fear of driving her right into corruption. Instead, she’d assumed none of them would help her, and had continued to suffer, sight unseen, sound unheard.

Waltz held up the journal. “I need to return this to the King.” And the cold, emotionless Waltz had returned. “I’ll also be having a few words with him.” Seeing Delora open her mouth, he added, “Words only. He needs to hear them.” With those parting words, he left the Marchen, and Delora sighed quietly at the return of the silence. She and Parfait were alone again, with only an ever growing list of “should haves” and might-have-beens for company.

* * *

  
_Music, when soft voices die,_

_Vibrates in the memory-_

_Odours, when sweet violets sicken,_

_Live within the sense they quicken._

_Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,_

_Are heap’d for the beloved’s bed;_

_And so thy thoughts, when thou are gone,_

_Love itself shall slumber on._

_‘Fare thee well, my Princess,’_ Myth thought, raising a glass filled with the finest whiskey to the window, toasting her memory. The moonlight poured into the dark, wood paneled room, turning the amber-colored liquid in his hand silver. A book of poetry rested open in his lap, displaying two poems about grief. _“And so thy thoughts, when thou are gone,/Love itself shall slumber on…”_ how very appropriate. Until recently, he’d believed his obsession with Hildyr to be love. Now, the thought repulsed him. Certainly, his former master had had the right idea on how to handle the witch genocide: every human involved in the slaughter of those thousands of innocents deserved whatever suffering that could be inflicted. But she’d been wrong about so many other things. Like saying that Cresswell was better than him. He possessed more natural flair and brute power, but he failed to appreciate the intricacies of magic, the history behind certain spells. Myth did not. Knowledge was power, after all. Hildyr had also said that things like love and compassion were useless. Once again, his master…his former Queen, had been wrong. Lucette had taught him that.

Oh, his Princess had taught him so many things. Because of her, even now, he was unable to go back to hating Cresswell. Actually, seeing his former rival in such pain had actually…hurt. Not as much as knowing his Princess was gone—gods, he didn’t think _that_ wound would ever heal—but enough that he felt sympathy for the other. It was hard to hate someone as broken as Cresswell was now. Even so…his Princess was dead. _Lucette_ was dead, and he couldn’t blame anyone but her. Oh, he could try to blame Cresswell for it, but no.

He’d spent four years masquerading as an advisor. He’d seen firsthand how Lucette had been sleepwalking through her life until she was cursed. Only on occasion had she shown even the faintest ember of the fire inside of her, and each time had left him a little more captivated. Each time had made him question Hildyr a little more, until suddenly he was throwing himself between his Princess and his Queen, and when the time had come to choose sides, he had inexplicably—according to the rest of the world, anyway—chosen Lucette. He’d found that he couldn’t allow Hildyr to extinguish that light.

 _‘Fat lot of good it did,’_ part of him thought bitterly. _‘Hildyr is dead, but we know she took Lucette with her. In spirit, at least.’_ He hadn’t been there when his Princess won the war for them, but he’d seen her shortly before she left for the last time. The light had left her eyes, and her gait, usually so light and graceful _‘like starlight on the water…’_ part of him mused nonsensically, had been heavy and utterly exhausted. How he wished he’d called out to her. Maybe then…but no. There was no use in going down that road. No use at all. His Princess was dead, and she was never coming back.

 _“Our lives are not our own, Sir Mythros,”_ she’d once said to him, long before she’d learned the truth. _“They belong to those who love us, and whom we love. After all, when we’re gone, we’re not there to miss ourselves. Other people do that.”_

 _“But what about those who have never loved or been loved?”_ he’d asked.

She’d sighed then, the sound filled with sadness. Her voice, when she answered, was grave, yet somehow infinitely tender. _“They, perhaps, belong to themselves in truth. But what a price to pay. Those unfortunates live a half-life, always looking for something that they cannot name, and wake from sleep reaching for something that is just out of reach. But even they have a goal in mind.”_ She’d looked up at him then, golden eyes seeming almost molten, fresh from the forge fires. _“We all must live for something,Sir Mythros. Haven’t you ever longed for something with all your heart?”_

For the longest time, he’d thought he wanted Hildyr’s recognition and acknowledgment. She’d almost seemed a goddess to him. But now, he could admit even to himself that she’d never given him anything but scorn. She had been so riddled with hate and corruption that she could never have given him what he wanted. But Lucette…his Princess had given him appreciation in spades, had encouraged him to pursue his interests, and even taken the time to listen to him talk about them, often for hours. And yet she had never begrudged him the time. She would always listen to him like he was all that mattered in those moments, would smile that small but gentle and infinitely genuine smile when he got particularly passionate about a topic. She would ask him questions, and even help him find more books about it on occasion. Hildyr had never done such a thing.

His Princess had never so much as raised her voice against him. Hildyr had raged at him, and even beaten him near to death. His Princess offered thanks for services rendered as easily as breathing—and she’d so rarely asked for anything—and Hildyr had only berated him for failing her. Even when things did not go quite according to plan, his Princess had never turned on him. Instead, she would first ask about his wellbeing as if it _mattered_ , as if _he_ mattered, and then would question him as to what happened. Her questions were gentle, patient…never judging, and if he were injured, she would always see his wounds treated and insist he rest and recover first. And more often than not, she would deem the issue to have been with the plan rather than his inadequacies, and they would work together to solve the problem. Once again, she had always acted as if she valued his opinion, as if she believed what he said meant something to her.And he had believed her.

But in the end, she’d left him, too. And gods, it _hurt_. Her death had left him with a gaping wound in his chest where his heart, torn and ruined as it was, had once beat. All that was left was pain. He couldn’t imagine how Cresswell felt. He brought the glass to his lips, and downed it in one gulp. He poured another, following the same pattern. And another. And another. The poetry book in his lap seemed to mock him. _She’s dead, she left, she’s dead, she left, she’s dead—_ “SHUT UP!” he roared, and, leaping from his seat, hurled the glass against the wall, where it shattered. Shards of glass lay scattered acros the carpet, sparkling in the moonlight. The poetry book lay facedown on the floor, covers spread out, spine bent.

Myth sank back into his chair, staring blankly up at the moon. _‘Cresswell had it wrong,’_ he thought. _‘She was no star. Not our Lucette. She was the moon, always pulling us towards her. Even when she wasn’t there, her presence was, pulling us into her orbit and pushing us back like the moon does the tides. She ought to have been named Luna.’_ Even now, he fancied he could see her in that shadowed corner across from him, watching. She wouldn’t approve of this.

“Why d- _hic_ -why’d you do it, Priinncesss?” he slurred. “ _Hic_ —why’d you go and leave me, hmm?”

This vision watched him sadly, but offered no response. She simply stood,watching, half of her face veiled in shadow.

“Answer me!”

Her lips parted, and he leaned forward. But then, the apparition’s mouth formed a silent sigh, and she was gone.

Myth tipped his head back, staring up at the ceiling, and a single tear poured from his right eye, trickling down his cheek.

A knock sounded on the door. “ _What?!_ ” the formerly corrupted witch turned to the door, a snarl on his lips. The door opened, and his former rival stood in the doorway. “Oh…it’s you…what do you want, Cresswell?”

His rival looked at him, and…what was that expression on his face? He would have expected disgust or something similar…but…was that…was that _sympathy_? “I need your help,” Cresswell said. His voice was wrecked, as if he’d been screaming for days. Hells, maybe he had.

“And why— _hic—_ would I help you?”

“Help me save Lucette.”

Had he lost his mind? “The Princess is dead, Cresswell. Have you forgotten that?” His own voice was flat, and the words had none of the venom or condescension he had hoped.

Cresswell’s worried expression turned guilty. “I was going through her things, and I found a partly translated version of the Hekataian Codex.”

Myth held up a hand. “Stop. Now I know you’ve gone insane, Cresswell. The Hekataian Codex has been missing since before the time of the Crystallum. Now you’re telling me that our Princess had it, and was actually able to translate it? _No one_ would be able to _read_ the damn thing, let alone break a millennia-old code made from the construction of two long-forgotten languages. It’s impossible.”

Cresswell raised a hand. A hand which Myth now noticed held a battered, obviously aged scroll. But the seal on the string holding it closed…there was no duplicating the sigil of Hecate. No witch or fairy would ever dare to duplicate that symbol, and he could now sense the thrum of ancient magic, which grew louder as the alcohol faded from his system. It was fading faster than he liked. “Holy gods…” he whispered. “She had it.”

Cresswell dared to smirk slightly, but the amusement faded. “Her translation included a table of contents, and if it’s right, there’s a spell in here that allows one to travel back in time. But she never got around to translating it. I have no head for languages, and Parfait and Delora are so obsessed with balance that getting help from them would be like pulling teeth.

Cresswell was asking _him_ for help. Well…if it could save Lucette… “Did she leave any notes, anything at all to indicate how she cracked the code?” Myth asked.

Cresswell nodded. “Loads. Honestly, I can’t make heads or tails of half of it...I never learned much beyond the common tongue and High Aeteeian.”

“Do you think this could work?”

“It’s the Hekataian Codex. If it contains a spell, we know it works. They were written by the Goddess herself.”

Myth sighed. “Right. Well, bring me her notes, and I’ll see what I can do.”

**Author's Note:**

> High Aeteeian is an ancient language spoken solely amongst witches. It contains words of power that, when spoken aloud and combined with certain magical plants or herbs, can go beyond the scope of magic allowed by the two Crystallum. In this day and age, the magical properties of the tongue are rarely used. However, it is still useful for keeping information secret between two witches.


End file.
